


Cupid's Helper

by ImagineMystrade



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImagineMystrade/pseuds/ImagineMystrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is sure he has the perfect Valentine's Day planned for Mycroft, but will it pass muster with Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cupid's Helper

**Author's Note:**

> Not prompt related. Just a short Valentine's Day fluff piece. Happy Valentine's Day!

Greg Lestrade was just finishing up the paperwork on a fatal Tube stabbing that had happened just that morning when his office door flew open and Sherlock Holmes strode inside, his expressive face frowning and even his famous curls seeming to droop in disapproval.

 

“Sherlock, what are you –”

 

Sherlock took a chair on the other side of the desk and shook his head slowly.

 

“Gerald, I thought we were friends.”

 

“ _Greg_.” Lestrade managed to not roll his eyes. “What's this all about? I thought you were haring off after that bloke you're sure murdered his stepmother.”

 

“He's not going anywhere,” responded Sherlock. “The reading of the will isn't until Monday and he's not going to try to dispose of the murder weapon until Saturday evening at the earliest. Don't try to change the subject. I'm surprised at you.”

 

“Me?” Greg stared at him. “What'd _I_ do?”

 

“It's what you _haven't_ done,” said Sherlock. “I've just come from Bart's morgue. I was testing a theory, and as it turns out, I was correct.”

 

“Is this about the Tyndale case?” Greg leaned forward. “Are you saying the woman wasn't garroted after all?”

 

“No, no, of course she was.” Sherlock waved dismissively. “That wasn't the theory I was attempting to test. Once I'd spoken to Mrs. Hudson, I had a suspicion, and it bore out.” Sherlock glared at Lestrade. “You really _did_ ask everyone for their advice except for me!”

 

“Advice? Advice about what?” Lestrade was beginning to have a small inkling of what Sherlock was going on about, but he could hardly believe the man would care anything about that. “What are you – ?”

 

“Come off it, Gene,” said Sherlock in an almost-growl. “I'm appalled that you've been shagging my brother for nearly two months and you didn't even _think_ to ask my advice.”

 

Lestrade sat wearily back in his chair. “Can _I_ be appalled that I've been shagging your brother for nearly two months and you apparently _still don't know my bloody name_?”

 

Sherlock paid no attention. “I can understand your going to John. He's had _quite_ a bit of experience with this sort of thing. And I suppose going to John means going to Mary, also. Fine. And Mrs. Hudson … I suppose she would know a thing or two about such matters.” Sherlock's gaze hardened. “But Molly Hooper? You asked Molly Hooper? And Mike Stamford? Who's never even _met_ my brother? And _Anderson?_ ”

 

Greg swallowed hard. He knew when Sherlock was having him on or being sarcastic, and he could look into the man's eyes and tell that neither was the case. He truly was offended – no, more hurt than offended.

 

Lestrade couldn't believe it. He'd actually _hurt_ Sherlock Holmes's feelings!

 

“Molly knows your brother a bit. They had coffee every other week when you were de--, er, away.”

 

“Formulating a workable excuse for forging a death certificate takes some time, believe it or not,” said Sherlock with a smirk. “Just because coffee and muffins were involved, it doesn't mean they were becoming BFFs.”

 

“Anderson just happened to be around when I was thinking out loud, and he put his bit in without me actually asking,” said Greg. “And Mike's a bit of a romantic. He likes to see people get together. I reckoned he might have a good idea or two ...”

 

“Stamford overcompensates for what he considers to be his lack of attractive qualities by trying to push together people he thinks will suit each other,” said Sherlock. “Rather than having a bit of courage and putting himself out there, he prefers to live vicariously through –”

 

“- A bit hard on the man who _did_ introduce you to _your_ BFF.” Lestrade made the air quotes, knowing it would irritate Sherlock. He was mildly surprised, then, when Sherlock flushed and looked away for a moment.

 

“Yes, well … I _did_ say thank you.” Sherlock cleared his throat, and a few seconds of awkward silence descended. He cleared his throat again. “Fine. Let's change tack a bit, shall we? Why didn't you ask _me_ what Mycroft might like to do for Valentine's Day?”

 

Lestrade breathed slowly in and out. The whole situation seemed surreal. Here was a man with one of the most singular minds ever created, who freely admitted that he knew nothing of such “trifles” as how the solar system worked or who was currently head of the government of the country in which he lived, and yet here he was, actually annoyed because he hadn't been consulted on the Valentine's Day plans of one Scotland Yard chief inspector.

 

Greg gnawed his bottom lip. “Didn't think something like Valentines' Day would be … _your area_ , so to speak. That seems like one of the first things you'd, ah, push out of your mind.”

 

Sherlock looked aghast. “Delete a holiday? Are you insane, Glen?”

 

“ _Greg_.”

 

“It's my business to know certain statistics, and one of those statistics is how much violent crime is enacted on which Bank holidays. For example, it's nearly universal that there is an uptick in murder when the weather is warm. It's just common sense – more people out and about, more opportunity … you'd think the TT Bank Holiday would be swimming in blood, but actually …”

 

Lestrade held up a hand. “Okay, okay. So you remember what Valentine's Day is. I'm amazed. I truly am.”

 

Sherlock peered at him. “But even if you _had_ known, you still wouldn't have asked my advice. Why?”

 

“Why should I have?”

 

“He is _my_ brother.”

 

Greg almost laughed. “Sherlock, the two of you can't be within five meters of each other without starting a row! You accused him of enjoying seeing the stuffing kicked out of you when he pulled you out of Serbia, for god's sake –”

 

“He _did_ enjoy it. You haven't discovered that … _rough_ edge of Mycroft, then? Hmmm. He must be saving _that_ for a special occasion.”

 

Greg didn't rise to the bait. “Plus, I don't know, I didn't think you'd want to know what me and Mycroft get up to. I mean, when you came over to mine and found him there, you weren't exactly thrilled, and all we were doing was sitting on the sofa.”

 

“You were all but naked!”

 

“I had my shirt off because I spilled some wine on it!” retorted Greg. “I _still_ don't think that warranted you grabbing your head and screaming 'OH FOR GOD'S SAKE, COVER YOURSELVES!' at the top of your voice!”

 

Sherlock grimaced. “Be that as it may, I would have at least liked a _token_ effort to have been made to seek my counsel.”

 

“On _Valentine's Day_?” Greg gaped. “Sherlock, no offense, but you've never had a significant other – not that I know of anyway – you've never shown any sort of interest in _anything_ romantic ...” Greg trailed off, shaking his head. “Why the hell would you have expected me to come to you?”

 

“Because Mycroft is my brother –”

 

“ – Who you can barely stand to be around and belittle every bloody chance you get!”

 

Sherlock thought that over. Shrugged.

 

“Be that as it may, I've known him for 37 years, and we share DNA. I would think those credentials would trump Molly's, Mike's, and bloody _Anderson_ 's!”

 

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I'm sorry you felt left out. I just really didn't think you'd give a toss, one way or the other.”

 

“Well, usually I wouldn't ...”

 

“See?!” Greg stabbed a finger in the air. “See, I _knew_ it! –”

 

“... except that my brother has never kept up a romantic relationship for more than two weeks, at best,” continued Sherlock. “You have been with him more than three times as long as his personal best.”

 

Greg blinked. “O … kay? Was there supposed to be a compliment in there somewhere? –”

 

“Our parents are aware,” said Sherlock. “They worry about his working too hard. Being isolated. That he has been so long, relatively speaking, in a romantic relationship, pleases them. It indicates that he is content and comfortable with his chosen partner. They wish to see him … happy.”

 

“And?”

 

“ _And_?” Sherlock's expression was blank. _Too_ blank.

 

Lestrade peered at the man opposite him, seeing a faint flush on his cheeks. Greg's lips curved into a small, disbelieving smile, which grew into a broad grin when Sherlock looked away and coughed again.

 

“ _And_ your parents aren't the _only_ ones who want to see him happy, yeah?” Greg chortled. “Bloody hell. _You_ like it, too. You _like_ that we're seeing each other! That's what this is all about. You're not down here to give me blue hell just for not asking you about what plans to make – you want to make sure I don't muck things up!”

 

Sherlock's cheeks were scarlet. “I should tell you now, Gareth, that I am going to entirely delete this part of our conversation.”

 

“Yeah? Well, it's a good job _I_ won't.” Greg was almost cackling. “Don't worry … your secret'll be safe with me. I won't breathe a word to Mycroft that you cared enough to make sure his boyfriend wasn't about to make a tit of himself. As far as that goes, your reputation as an unfeeling cock will remain intact.”

 

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath that definitely was _not_  “thank you.”

 

Greg was still smiling. “Don't worry. I think I've got it well in hand. Talking to the others helped me get a bit of clarity. John and Mary suggested I do one of those dinner cruises ...”

 

“... Which would have been a waste of money as Mycroft gets incredibly seasick and would have vomited up most of the courses by the time you got to the Thames Barrier.” Sherlock grimaced. “Next?”

 

“Yeah, I don't fancy boats much, either.” Greg shrugged. “Mrs. Hudson suggested something called _The Vault Festival_. Something going on under Waterloo Station. Edgy. Hush-hush. Need some sort of password to get into the VIP section, which according to her is the only reason to go.”

 

Sherlock looked slightly intrigued. “Hmm. Interesting. I might even say rather ingenious, if not for that little adventure in the Underground last Guy Fawkes Day. He was buried under paperwork for a week and might not want any reminders quite so soon.”

 

“I wasn't too keen, tell you the truth,” said Greg. “Garbage, rats and people milling about below street level isn't really my idea of romance.”

 

“What did Molly suggest?”

 

“Something I wouldn't have expected of her,” said Greg with a smile. “The Natural History Museum puts on something of a cheeky tour, separate exhibits depending on whether you love Valentine's Day or hate it. If you love it, you get the nice side of nature. If you hate it, they take you down the road with the poisonous plants and predators. She suggested Mycroft and I do both sides and get the complete experience.”

 

Sherlock actually smiled. “She really has come on in the past year, hasn't she? I'm assuming her reconciliation with … Tom? … was short-lived.”

 

“I don't know. Think she still might be seeing him, but there's been a rough patch, for sure,” said Greg, tapping his chin. “Huh. I didn't even think about that as a reason she might have suggested it. But anyway, I wasn't sure Mycroft would fancy being inside for so much time. Besides, the tickets were sold out ...”

 

“Hmmm. And Mike's suggestion was something completely opposite, I would imagine.”

 

“Well, he mentioned that there was something on having to do with Keats –”

 

“Mawkish. Overly sentimental. Obvious.” Sherlock was sneering. “Unsurprising, for Stamford. Besides which Mycroft prefers Shelley to Keats, and only barely. He considers them both to have died too young to have really expressed their full powers. Next?”

 

“Well, Anderson thought maybe the Planetarium –”

 

“Boring.” Sherlock yawned. “Next.”

 

“That was it,” said Greg. “None of the ideas completely sold me. Obviously I didn't want to ask Mycroft directly – wanted it to be a surprise. With him out in Johannesburg for the week, I didn't reckon _he_ would have time to plan anything, so I decided to give it a bit more thought on my own.”

 

“I see.” Sherlock looked somewhat apprehensive. “Well?”

 

“I decided not to go _too_ elaborate or _too_ predictable or _too_ weird,” said Greg. “Thought I'd start with a nice dinner at a place he's been wanting to try.”

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “You _know_ this for a fact?”

 

“Well, yeah.” Greg rubbed the back of his neck, a bit confused by Sherlock's sudden attentiveness. “I mean, he mentioned something in passing ...”

 

“In passing? Was it more along the lines of 'Ah, IpsoFacto does a fabulously smashing Tournedos Rossini, I've heard,' or more, 'I was passing this amusing little Croatian bistro whilst on the way to the Myspopian Embassy to help teach the ambassador how to tie a four-in-hand'”?

 

“Uh … you know Mycroft doesn't really talk like that, yeah?” Greg's brow furrowed. “And _who_ doesn't know how to tie a bloody four-in-hand?”

 

“You'd be surprised at the lapses in knowledge my brother has been called upon to remedy in the most high-level persons,” said Sherlock dryly. “Some years ago, he was called out to a five-star hotel because the delegation had no idea what function the bidet served.”

 

Greg shuddered slightly. “I'm going to leave that alone.”

 

“That was Mycroft's eventual suggestion to the persons involved. They were using it as a water fountain.” Sherlock waved a hand. “But it's not of a consequence, Giles. How do you know it's a restaurant my brother will like?”

 

“We were watching a match on telly,” said Greg. “And the commentators were talking up one of the new players on ManU, saying that he was from Cyprus, spoke seven languages, all of that. And your brother said –”

 

“You have Mycroft watching football matches? He truly _is_ besotted.”

 

Greg hid a smile. “Anyway, he said that it was rare to hear about Cyprus or anything to do with it even though the island was gorgeous and the food was, for his money, the best of the Mediterranean. He mentioned that there was a Cypriot place that had just opened up in Knightsbridge that he wouldn't mind trying. So I looked it up and made a reservation.”

 

Lestrade looked at Sherlock's contemplative expression. “Problem?”

 

“Actually … no.” Sherlock's eyebrows rose. “If he'd said something along the lines of my first suggestion, that would have indicated that he was fishing to see whether _you_ would be keen to try it. It would be too specific a statement to assume he'd only heard about it in passing, so it would stand to reason that he _had_ been there before himself and liked it but wouldn't know if you'd enjoy it.”

 

Greg frowned. “Oh. But –”

 

“And if it had been more along the lines of the second go, then it would have been Mycroft pulling something completely out of the air and hoping you'd have a better suggestion. When he's called in on a mission, no matter how inane, he barely notices anything else. Not even food, amazingly enough.”

 

“Oi, watch it! Mycroft is _not_ heavy –”

 

“ – But phrasing it as he did, in that context and under those circumstances … it is more likely that he actually _does_ want to try this particular restaurant.” He nodded at Lestrade. “One for you, Gabriel.”

 

The look of wonder on Sherlock's face would have been touching if it weren't so comically absurd. Greg managed to disguise a snicker by clearing his throat.

 

“Glad to get your stamp of approval.”

 

“What else have you got on other than dinner?” Sherlock glanced at his watch. “Horse-drawn carriage ride? Rousing lecture on national security? Chocolate bon-bon tasting?”

 

“Are those suggestions or are you insulting me again?”

 

“Possibly both. I find all of the above insipid, but Mycroft enjoys horses, though he'd prefer to ride one rather than be dragged around by one. He'd also prefer to give the lecture than listen to it. And he prefers cake to any sort of candy ever created.”

 

“Noted,” said Greg, tucking away that information for future reference. He highly doubted Sherlock would be this forthcoming … well, _ever_ again. “I _had_ wondered about a play or a show or something, but, ah … I decided on something a bit more … um, dynamic.”

 

“Dynamic?” Sherlock repeated as if Greg had used a particularly nasty word. “And that would be what? Taking him along with you to a crime scene? He'll complain about how hard it is to get bloodstains out of Italian calfskin –”

 

“Uh. No.” Greg shook his head. “Even though you lot share DNA, I never reckoned that Mycroft and you shared the same tastes in … that. No, I thought … well, that is ...”

 

Lestrade fidgeted, now a bit uncertain. Sherlock was looking at him in mild alarm and Greg was suddenly aware of how trite the idea might sound. He tried to tell himself that maybe it would be a good thing if Sherlock rubbished the idea right off, rather than subject Mycroft to something he might not enjoy. Sure, the tickets were bought already and they'd cost a fair bit, but still …

 

“Yes?” Sherlock continued to stare at him. “Not one of those silly 'murder mystery' train rides –”

 

“No. I'll call your attention again to that little fact that _most people_ don't get off on murder.” Greg chewed the inside of his cheek. “It might be a little, I dunno … but I thought it might be nice.”

 

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Full sentences, Gilbert, might _also_ be nice.”

 

“Try not to be a dick, Sherlock. I know you have it in you.” Greg glared. “And it's _Greg._ Anyway, I, er, I thought maybe something where we could be alone and relax, and maybe see a bit of nice scenery, so I … er … bought a pair of tickets to the, uh, Cupid's Capsule on the Eye.”

 

Sherlock said nothing, which made Greg want to loosen his collar. He couldn't read a thing in Sherlock's face, not a muscle moved. Even his hair seemed to go completely still.

 

“It's, ah, you know, a private ride up on the eye. Just you and your significant other for the half-hour or so you get to go round.” Greg swallowed hard. “There's champagne and maybe something else, I have to check the email they sent. I guess I thought it might be nice to just relax, see the moonlight, talk ...”

 

Sherlock was still silent, and Greg cursed inwardly. Maybe he should've taken Stamford's advice on the Yeats thing. At least there was going to be some mildly dirty poetry involved.

 

Lestrade took a deep breath. “What, too cheesy?”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. Greg watched him anxiously and was startled when the other man suddenly opened his eyes.

 

“No. Perfect.”

 

Greg's breath left him a rush, but he found himself still gripping the sides of his chair. “Sorry?”

 

“Perfect,” repeated Sherlock. “Of course it's utterly banal and required little imagination on your part --”

 

“-- Now _wait_ a minute –”

 

“– But, Mycroft will love it,” continued Sherlock. “Our parents were never much for doing amusements of that kind, though a lot of that is down to my father's mild agoraphobia. As a result, Mycroft has been drawn to things precisely like the Eye.”

 

Greg felt himself relax a bit. “Really? That _is_ a surprise. Though, the Eye's only been around 15 years or so – I would've thought he'd have tried it dozens of times by now.”

 

“No, that's the tragedy of my brother's _minor_ role in the government,” said Sherlock. “He doesn't have time for those sort of frivolities unless he's entertaining a valued guest. He once told me that generally the people he has to squire round the city don't want to appear gauche and they never suggest going down to any of the piers or any of the tourist traps. He'll likely be over the moon to be able to go. _And_ with champagne, too? Impressive. It will be a useless vintage, of course, but it's the thought that counts.”

 

Greg looked at him askance. “You're serious? You're not having me on right now, are you?”

 

Sherlock looked puzzled. “No, of course not. Why would I lie to you?”

 

“I dunno … so you can have a laugh when we pull up to the Eye and Mycroft tells me he's afraid of heights or has a bit of your dad's agoraphobia or something?”

 

“I wouldn't joke about a thing like that.” Sherlock's expression was grave. “Besides, it wouldn't do much good to mislead you. Mycroft would see through that, blame me, and … our parents wouldn't be best pleased.”

 

“Right.” Greg was smiling again. “Your _parents_.”

 

Sherlock stood up somewhat abruptly. “I think – against all odds – you've managed to cobble together an evening my brother might enjoy.”

 

“I hope you're right,” said Greg, looking up at the taller man. “ _I_ don't want to cock it up, either. I've had some Valentine's Days to forget, and I'm sure Mycroft's had the same. I don't want this to be one of them.”

 

Sherlock looked pensive for a moment, but then shrugged. “Do you have plans for after your thrilling spin on the Eye?”

 

Greg raised both eyebrows. “Well, yeah. I figured we'd go back to mine, and ...”

 

Sherlock canted his head, his own eyebrows climbing high. “And …?”

 

Lestrade's cheeks reddened. “C'mon, Sherlock … a romantic night out, and I'm bringing him back to mine … I know I don't have to spell it out for you?”

 

Sherlock's brow furrowed, and then his expression crumpled. “Oh, right. Sex. Well, say no more.”

 

“Wasn't planning to.”

 

“Good day then, Gary.”

 

“ _Greg_.”

 

Sherlock paused at the door before giving a last glance over his shoulder. “Do you usually top or does my brother?”

 

Greg sputtered a moment. “ _What_?”

 

“Oh, I see. You do. Perhaps let him take the dominant position tonight?” Sherlock's voice was utterly monotone. “Switch it up a bit?”

 

“... And on _that_ note, I think this conversation is _definitely_ over.” Greg's face was burning. “ _Goodbye_ , Sher--”

 

Sherlock's head whipped round again, and before Greg could finish the sentence, he was gone.

 

* * *

 

Greg's head fell limply on the pillow beside which a darker head lay, equally bathed in sweat and with something of the same satisfied smile on his face that Lestrade wore himself. Moving somewhat slowly and with a slight wince, Greg sighed and rested his head on a freckled shoulder.

 

“Gregory, are you all right?”

 

“M'fine,” said Lestrade, still a bit breathless. “More than fine, actually ...”

 

“You're moving somewhat awkwardly.” The mild concern in Mycroft Holmes' voice deepened. “Did I … did I injure you?” He shifted onto his side and Greg could see Mycroft's eyes darkening with fear. “Oh no. I did, didn't I?”

 

“No! No ...” Greg put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. “It's just … it's been a while since I've done … _that_. I'm not as young as I used to be. Or as flexible.”

 

Mycroft looked contrite. “We needn't have done it … _that_ way. I have had no complaints about the usual way in which we make love. You seemed rather insistent that I take the lead, as it were, and ...”

 

“Mycroft, I'm _fine_. It's fine. It's all fine.” Greg leaned in to buss him gently on the lips. “It was brilliant. A bit of soreness. Nothing a hot shower won't sort out … especially if I had someone there to do my back.”

 

He wiggled his eyebrows enticingly. Mycroft laughed and shook his head as he pulled Greg closer.

 

“This was a lovely evening, Gregory. Thank you.”

 

“Really?” Greg smiled happily. “You enjoyed it? Sorry they ran out of the champagne truffles ...”

 

“No, it was for the best.” Mycroft rested his chin in Greg's hair. “I was still full from dinner, and I enjoyed the extra flowers they provided in compensation.”

 

“So … does this rank up there with good Valentine's Days you've had before?”

 

“At the very top,” said Mycroft. “Though I've spent this day _quite_ a bit differently than I have in the past.”

 

“Hmmm?” Greg looked up at him. “How d'you mean?”

 

“Well, from the time we were children until this year, Sherlock and I spent the day together,” said Mycroft smiling a little. “Save for that hiatus during his … rehabilitation, of course. And the recent two years during which he was, er, indisposed.”

 

Greg's eyes widened. “Every year? _You_ and Sherlock?”

 

“Does it surprise you?” Mycroft was stroking his back. “Early on, I was prejudiced against the holiday, as it was dripping with sentiment. I think I did so to insulate myself. I never got any valentines, you see.” His smile turned a bit sad. “It was easier to just dismiss the day entirely. Sherlock came round to my way of thinking. In our youth, we'd eat biscuits and drink tea and reenact one of his pirate fantasies. In our older age, the biscuits and tea shifted to cognac and Jaffa cakes. And _Connect Four._ Or _Sorry._ Generally we would alternate between the two, letting our competitiveness and self-respect run their own race until we'd had enough. Or until the cognac was gone.”

 

Greg was gaping. “You're serious? You're _serious_. You spent every Valentine's Day with Sherlock? I mean … I know _he's_ never … but haven't _you_ ever been with anyone during Valentine's Day?”

 

“There were a few times,” said Mycroft. “But they never planned anything especially interesting. Sherlock was always able to ferret out their plans, and it became obvious that they were planning an evening more for _their_ enjoyment than something that would be an experience for the two of us to share.”

 

Lestrade mulled that for a moment. “He never thought of, er, giving any of them a hint? I mean to point them in the direction as to what you'd might fancy.”

 

Mycroft laughed quietly. “This is _Sherlock_ we're talking about, Gregory. I'm sure doing such a thing wouldn't even cross his mind.”

 

Greg started to speak, but then Mycroft's hand snaked between his legs and he groaned, realizing that perhaps he wasn't as young and spry as he once had been, but he still had stamina enough to spare. When Mycroft flipped him the lube with a cheeky grin and then got comfortable on his stomach, Greg gave a passing thought to Sherlock, sitting alone and forlorn on Baker Street. He supposed he should have felt sorry for the man, but Mycroft chose that moment to wiggle his arse most distractingly, and Greg had to admit that every single thought of Sherlock exited his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dammit!”

 

“I win again? Oh, I _do_ like this game.”

 

There was a rude, dismissive noise. “Beginner's luck.”

 

“Don't be a sore loser, dear. It gives you wrinkles.” Mrs. Hudson smiled triumphantly as Sherlock released the lever of the _Connect Four_ board, spilling all the tiles on the table. “I rather like this game. It's a lot less pressure than the other, with all of the buzzing and the poor man's nose lighting up. Shall I get the kettle going again?”

 

Sherlock grumbled as he pushed the red pieces toward his landlady and gathered the black pieces into his own little pile. “Leave it. I have just the thing for _this_ occasion.”

 

As he walked over to the small desk where he kept a bottle of Hennessy Paradis stashed, Sherlock glanced at his watch, and crossed to the window and stared out onto Baker Street. It was quiet, dark and deserted, no one moving around anywhere. He lifted his eyes, seeing in his mind's eye two men climbing toward the moonlight, toasting each other with champagne and laughing and kissing.

 

A small smile lifted Sherlock's lips, and he lifted the squat heavy bottle in salute. “Happy Valentine's Day, brother mine.”


End file.
